Letters From My Windmill Alphonse Daudet (top 10 ebook reader .txt) 📖

—Roast turkeys … golden carp … trout as fat as your arm….

Outside the night-wind blew and broadcasted the music of the bells, asthe lights began to appear on the dark side of Mount Ventoux,surmounted by the old towers of the Trinquelage. Tenant farmers'families were walking to hear midnight mass at the chateau. They sangas they climbed the hillside in small groups, the fathers in the lead,holding the lantern, their wives, wrapped up against the wind in large,brown mantles, which also acted as a shelter for the children when theysnuggled up. Despite the dark and the cold, all these brave folk walkedon joyfully, sustained by the thought that, just like every other year,after the mass, there would be a table stocked up for them in thekitchen downstairs. During the hard climb, a lord's coach, with itsleading torch-bearers, and its windows shimmering in the moonlight,occasionally went by. Once, a mule with bells trotted past and thefarmers were able to recognise their bailiff by the light of theirlanterns, and greeted him as he passed:

—Good evening, Master Arnoton!

—Good evening, my dears!

The night was clear, the stars seemed intensified by the cold, and thewind was stinging. Very fine ice crystals slid down their clotheswithout wetting them, which kept up the tradition of a white Christmas.At the very top of the hill, the chateau marked the end of theirjourney, with its mass of towers and gables. The chapel's clock roseinto a dark blue sky, and a host of tiny lights flickered in and out atevery window in the murky rear of the building, and looked like sparksrunning along burning paper…. To reach the chapel, after crossing thedrawbridge and passing through the rear entrance, you had to cross themain courtyard, full of coaches, valets, and sedan-chairs. It was alllit up by the fire of the torches and flares from the kitchens, whichwas also the source of a squeaking spit, clattering saucepans, thechink of crystal and silverware shaken about during the laying of thetables, and a warm steam smelling deliciously of roast meat and strongherbs in fine sauces. This started the farmers, chaplain, bailiff, andeverybody else commenting:

—What a splendid Christmas Eve dinner there is in store for us!

II

The bell rings twice!…

Midnight mass is beginning. The candles are lit and the tapestriesdraped from top to bottom of the interleaved arches and the oakpanelling in the chateau's chapel. It's a veritable cathedral inminiature. And what a congregation there is! And what get-ups they haveon! The Sire of Trinquelage is dressed in salmon-pink taffeta in one ofthe choir's sculptured stalls, with all the other invited noble Lordssitting near him. Opposite, on a pair of velvet decorated prie-dieus,the old dowager marquise in her flame-red, brocaded dress, and theyouthful Lady of Trinquelage, hair done up in a tower of crinkled lacein the latest style of the French court, have taken their places; andlower down, the bailiff, Thomas Arnoton, and the scrivener, MasterAmbroy are all in black, and clean shaven, with huge pointed wigs—twoquiet notes amongst the loud silks and brocaded damasks. Then thewell-fed major-domos, the pages, the stablemen, the stewards, and LadyBarbe, with all her keys hanging by her side on a fine silver key-ring.Then comes the lower orders on benches; the servants, thetenant-farmers, and their families. Lastly, the male servers, who arelined up against the door, quietly half opening and closing it again,as they pop in and out between making sauces, so they can soak up a bitof the atmosphere of the mass. As they do this, a whiff of ChristmasEve dinner wafts into the middle of the service, already warmed by somany lit candles.

Is it the sight of these little white birettas which distracts theofficiating priest? It's more likely to be Garrigou, with hispersistent, little bell incessantly ringing on at the foot of the altarwith infernal urgency as if to say:

—Hurry up, hurry up … the sooner we finish, the sooner we eat.

The simple fact is that with each tinkle of the devilishly insistentbell, the chaplain loses track of the mass, as his mind totally wandersoff into the Christmas Eve banquet. He imagines the cooks buzzingaround, the open-hearth blazing furnaces, the steam hissing fromhalf-opened lids, and there, within the steam, two magnificent turkeys,stuffed to bursting, and marbled with truffles….

Even worse, he imagines the lines of pages carrying dishes that breatheout the tempting vapour and accompanies them to the great hall alreadyprepared for the great feast. Oh, such delicacies! Then there is theimmense table fully loaded and brimming over with peacocks stillcovered in their feathered glory, pheasants with their golden brownwings spread wide, the ruby coloured flagons of wine, pyramids of fruitbegging to be plucked from the green foliage, and the marvellous fishspread out on a bed of fennel, their pearly scales shining as if justcaught, with a bouquet of aromatic herbs in the gills of thesemonsters. So life-like is the vision of these marvels, that DomBalaguère has the impression that these fabulous dishes were served onthe embroidered altar cloth, so that instead of saying, the Lord bewith you he finds himself saying grace. These slight faux-pas aside,he reels off his office conscientiously enough, without fluffing a lineor missing a genuflexion. All went well to the end of the first mass.But, remember, the celebrant is obliged take three consecutive masseson Christmas Day.

—That's one less! sighs the chaplain to himself in blessèd relief.Then, without wasting a second, he nodded to his clerical assistant, orat least, to what he thought was his clerical assistant, and …

The bell rang, again!

The second mass begins, and with it, the fatal fall into sin of Dom

Balaguère.

—Quick, quick, let's hurry up, cries the shrill voice of Garigou'sbell, but this time the unlucky celebrant abandons himself utterly tothe demon of greed and pounces on the missal, devouring the pages as helost control of his avidly over-stimulated appetite. He becomesfrenzied, he bows down, he rises, takes a sight stab at crossinghimself and genuflecting, minimising the gestures, all the quicker toreach the end. His arms, no sooner stretched over the gospels than backthumping